


It’s A Little Bit Funny, This Feeling Inside

by teenuviel1227



Series: Come What May [1]
Category: Day6 (Band)
Genre: F/F, JaehyungparkianWeek2018, M/M, Past Lives, balletdancer!Brian, courtesan!Brian, everyone else is mentioned and has a bigger role to play in the main fic, playwright!Jae, prelude to the Moulin Rouge AU, screenwriter!Jae, stick around it'll be great, yes they're women in the past life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 20:41:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13888755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teenuviel1227/pseuds/teenuviel1227
Summary: In which Jae is a screenwriter who lives across the street from Brian, a ballerina. His library’s window looks right into Brian’s studio and there’s just something about watching him dance, something about the way he moves that Jae finds haunting, familiar. One day, when they bump into each other on the street and Jae gets the shock of a lifetime: a clear-as-day flashback to their past lives which are deeply entwined.





	It’s A Little Bit Funny, This Feeling Inside

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first installment in this series. 
> 
> The second one (told from the past--heads up, yes, a Moulin Rouge AU) will be posted on Femme6 day which is on Day 6 of Jaehyungparkian Week (Saturday).
> 
> Hey, everyone! This is for Day 3 of Jaehyungparkian Week, the theme of which is Past Lives. :D
> 
> If you guys have no idea what I’m talking about, I’m hosting a [fan art/fan fic fest over here](https://twitter.com/day6sailing/status/968701090828046337) along with a bunch of awesome people and this week is Jaehyungparkian week. Come join the fun! 
> 
> Title is from Your Song by Elton John, but the version sung by Ewan McGregor, taken from the Moulin Rouge OST
> 
>  
> 
> [Twitter](http://twitter.com/teenuviel1227)  
> [Tumblr](http://teenuviel1227.tumblr.com)  
> [Curious Cat](http://curiouscat.me/teenuviel1227)

There’s something about him, the way that he moves, the way that he carries a stolid, bright sadness in his eyes that Jae can’t quite put his finger on. Something in the shape of the arches he draws with his arms as he swoops forward, gliding across the room--something in the strong posture of his back: a single line from crown to spine to hip to leg which sweeps back and over as he leans forward on the barre bar to music that Jae can’t hear. Pirouette, arabesque, attitude derrière--swoop, twist, glide. Jae thinks he’s beautiful.

Jae’s been living in this fifth-floor loft in downtown Paris for the past year-and-a-half and will continue to call it home for a while more, his contract at the Diamant Network being renewed for another two years. They liked his work: a guy like Jae is rare these days--American-raised and educated, Seoul-experienced with producing, writing, and scoring for the best K-Dramas on almost every major South Korean network at some point. A global citizen. A man who belonged everywhere. He’s perfect, they’d said. 

Jae agrees--now if only Paris were perfect for him too. He sighs, presses his forehead to the cool glass of the window.

In a lot of ways, Paris is odd to Jae: he’d seen it romanticized so many times in films, seen it so many times as this beautiful place on TV, had written it that way numerous times himself. Paris: a place to want to aspire to living in, a place to want to belong to--the city of lights, the city of love. He’d gotten on the plane with the expectation of having his heart soar, of finding romance or something like it. Instead, moving here had made him extremely sad, a heaviness weighing on his heart unlike anything he’s ever felt before the moment he’d stepped onto the pavement. It’s something in the asphalt, something in the air, something in the way the light dances across a room and lands nowhere. 

The city is beautiful, yes, but it’s a cold kind of beauty: like love sleeping underneath a glass coffin. 

What the films never mention is that Paris is expensive and yes, it glitters like a diamond, but diamonds can cut too--and cut deep, close. Jae doesn’t speak the language. Jae doesn’t speak to anyone these days. All Jae does is write, write, write: episode after episode after episode. 

The drama is about love. 

Writing it feels like surgery. He feels like a schmuck, pretending at something greater than himself, something that eludes him.  
These days, all Jae does is  _ want  _ to write, write, write. Writing is a peripheral thing: something to be viewed slant-wise. Without anything else to look at, Jae feels like he’s lost his vision. Everything he’s typed up doesn’t quite  _ sing _ \--only trembles, doesn’t  _ dance.  _ Something about it throws him off: all the components function but the thing itself doesn’t flow.

Jae knows the scoring is good, knows the dialogue is good, knows the concept is good. But somehow, put together, it’s clunky, awkward, uninspired. Or, as his boss’s email had read:  _ not bad, at most.  _

And yet, he stays. He has to--for the prestige, for the experience, for the job, for the money. 

_ Why is everything always about the money?  _

One of Jae’s only moments of solace have been these afternoons, right before sunset, when his neighbor, a gymnast or ballerina from what Jae’s deduced, practices in his studio which Jae’s library window overlooks. The man is well-built, with a solid frame, broad shoulders and a graceful gait. He has a shock of black hair, milk-in-honey skin, feline eyes, a quiet-looking mouth. Jae’s first instinct after seeing him dance for the first time was to find out who he is, get to know him--but he’d decided against it, decided that would be just about the creepiest thing in the world. 

_ Hey, I saw you dancing through my window _ \--class-A creep.

And anyway, he came here to write about love, not look for it himself.

And anyway, Jae isn’t interested.

And anyway, he probably doesn’t speak English--nevermind Korean. 

And anyway, it isn’t like that.

Jae just finds the movement soothing, therapeutic to watch. Some people go to aquariums to see the grace and motion of sea life, to be soothed by chaos put into order. Jae looks out his window at four-thirty in the afternoon. 

Today is an especially hard day: Jae’s been up since five and has written exactly two pages, none of which he likes very much.  _ I’ll probably end up scrapping it. _ He sighs, resting his head against the glass and watches as through the it, the beautiful man glides, spins, turns, carving a masterpiece through the air. He does a flip-and-land, arching forward, an arm reaching out before he moves into another spin and lands with his arms gracefully held to his chest. Chin up, gaze soft, he looks out of the window a moment. 

He smiles.

Jae’s heart does a little jump. For a facsimile of a moment, he thinks the beautiful man is looking at him.

And the moment passes and the man moves back to the barre to begin again, back straight, an arm lifted. 

Jae lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. 

_ Probably just a trick of light.  _

  
  


Brian’s noticed him, has been wondering about him for almost a year now: the lonely man in the window, nursing a cup of coffee like it’s heartache. Bespectacled with a puff of platinum-blonde hair, skin like porcelain, a lonely expression on his face. 

_ Why are you so sad?  _

Brian has lived in this apartment for almost ten years--since moving to Paris from Toronto to pursue his career in contemporary ballet, he’s called this place home, had fixed the place up on his own, had ordered the mirrors custom, had installed the barre himself, has spent everyday of his life since then practicing in the studio, going at it like clockwork: he had to stay in shape, had to be the best. 

He memorizes everything about the view from the studio like he knows his footing on the floor: 45 degrees to the left, the sunset, straight ahead, the adjacent building, sixty degrees to the right, the mirror. He knows it especially from the point of view of a spin, even as the colors blur together, even as he swoops forward, leans back, changes perspective. The first time he’d seen the man in the window, he’d been wearing a bright blue sweater--it threw Brian off. There wasn’t supposed to be a blue blur like ink bleeding into paper 80 degrees to the right. He’d lost his balance and stumbled, recovering and reaching for the barre just in time to look up, confused, and find the lonely man looking back at him.

He’d almost smiled, almost waved, almost mouthed  _ are you okay _ ?

But there was something about him: like if Brian made contact, he felt he might break him. Like maybe he was looking out the window for more than just Brian dancing, like maybe he was looking out of the window at some version of himself: don’t wake the sleepwalker. Instead, Brian had begun again, had picked himself up, adjusted his expectations, and performed his routine perfectly. 

Like clockwork, every afternoon, Brian came to practice. And surer than dusk, when he looked up the man was there, that faraway look in his eyes, that sadness held in the sigh that frosted the glass of his window momentarily: he was trapped in there with his despair, trapped with the melancholy.

Sometimes, Brian looked up to see him smile. Sometimes, after Brian finishes dancing the man looks a little less sad, the corners of his mouth a little more lifted than they had been moments before. And in some odd way, Brian has grown fond of him, has taken to trying out new routines in the hopes that one day the man would be happy, that he would watch him with joy instead of sorrow. 

Today, the man looks sadder than usual. Today, he is looking at Brian with an expression that almost constitutes a plea.  _ Please dance well.  _ Brian does his best--sets the music to an old Elton John song, moving in time to the gliding piano melody. 

_ It's a little bit funny this feeling inside _

_ I'm not one of those who can easily hide _

_ I don't have much money but boy if I did _

_ I'd buy a big house where we both could live _

To Brian, the movement is technical, something built from memory, built on-the-go like one goes solving math from left to right: arms and feet in first position before sweeping his right arm up into fourth and moving from a quatrieme devant into an ala seconde into an epaule and finally swooping into the turn before landing in an attitude croise derriere, and then folding his arms softly against his chest. He glances up at the swoop, at the turn to see the man’s lips part in an almost-smile. 

Brian is caught off-guard, freezes. He smiles back. 

The lonely man just blinks at him.

There’s something familiar about that--something adorable, almost. 

_ Stop being stupid.  _

Brian takes a breath (one-and-two) and then returns to his place at the barre. 

  
  


It happens on the one day that Jae doesn’t go to watch the beautiful man because he’s finally had to update the producers on the state of the drama (he’d bullshitted his way to the end of the briefing)--which is the one day that Brian doesn’t go to practice dancing; he’d been called to a meeting for the production he was to star in later that month: 4:30 PM, non-negotiable.

When Jae comes out of the studio, located above an old theater hall, he has a folder of notes from the producers: ideas to try, concepts to fix, dialogue to perfect, different films and shows that he could watch to inspire him.  _ It’s this place,  _ he wants to say.  _ There’s something about this place.  _

Brian is anxious when he walks out of the theater--the production is in place, his schedule set, but opening night is much sooner than he’d anticipated so instead of the usual three-hour runs, his manager had put him down for six. Brian has bad knees (always had, always will), is prone to injury. Just the thought of it makes him nervous but they’d signed the contract months prior, he’s already been paid a generos advance. Brian doesn’t have much of a choice. 

Brian pushes the door to the theater open, absorbed in his own thoughts, not seeing the bespectacled man walking at a brisker pace behind him coming from the stairwell above, not noticing that the said man isn’t looking either, his nose buried in a folder teeming with notes, loose papers--one of which flies up and above Brian before slapping him in the face. 

A moment of blindness. He stops short, struggles to get the piece of paper off of him, holding it out against the wind.

The man walks into him from behind. 

They fall, topple onto each other, Brian turning in time to brace himself against the pavement, the loose leaf of paper flying up and off, lost to the wind--and now, Jae clinging onto Brian for dear life. His hands find Brian’s shoulders, Brian’s hands find the insides of Jae’s wrists, thumbs to his pulse. 

_ Lonely. _

_ Beautiful.  _

And then a moment of blinding brightness. 

  
  


Bright lights, an entire hall teeming with gentlemen in tailcoats and top hats, bowties loosened, pocket watches kept abreast. High ceilings, velvet upholstery, the faint, underlying smell of newly varnished wood. Jane looks around, taking everything in. She grins, heart pounding. It’s all wonderful: exactly what she’d moved to Paris for.  _ The city of lights, the city of love.  _

She closes her eyes, tries to commit everything to memory: the smell of tobacco burning, the sound of piano music as it dances staccato across the room, a violin swelling somewhere in the background. Jane looks around, enthralled by the need to keep something secret, the need to get something done--it’s like some kind of mission, some kind of mystery novel, something right out of the Penny Dreadfuls back in the 1830s. She looks down: by her hand, a half-filled glass of Whiskey, a cigar yet to be lit. 

“Ladies! Gentlemen! Welcome to the Moulin Rouge!” The owner and host, Monsieur Gamja, bellows from the stage. “For a splendid evening of fantasies and flesh, the finest liquor and music, the most tantalizing Can-can dancing, and the one and only Diamond from the East, Beatrice!”

The crowd cheers, men whistle, the lights by the stage blaze into being. A row of dancers take center stage as the music swells into a fast-paced beat. Jane tries not to blush as she takes in the way that they look in their costumes: the tight corsets and all they accentuate, the feathers tapering out from the curves of their hips, the leather-on-velvet garters, and  _ oh _ , their legs--stockinged and smooth, graceful. She feels herself sweating through the shirt of her borrowed three-piece-suit.

“Okay, here we go. Hey--hey, Jane,” a man with a strong jaw, furrowed eyebrows, hair swept up and back off his forehead snaps his fingers in front of her face. “Keep your head in the game, yeah? I need you to pay attention--”

“--yeah, you pay attention too, Sungjin,” another man pipes up--a baritone voice, hair brushed down, parted to the side. “It’s  _ Jay _ . Not Jane tonight, remember? If they find out he’s a she, we’ll all be done for.” 

“ _ Fine _ , Dowoon. God. Okay. Jay, sorry,” Sungjin says. “You’re going to have to sell it good, okay? Pil’s gotten you a private audience with Beatrice and she is the _ key _ to solving this whole funding debacle. She’s got the Duke in her pocket and he only finances one play every two years--we’re going to have to make damn sure it’s ours, got it?”

“Well,” Jane says, blinking up at them through her spectacles, absentmindedly tucking her platinum-blonde hair back behind her top hat. “Does she know who I am? I mean--”

“--of course not, you idiot,” Pil says, clapping Jane on the back as he joins them, taking a seat between Dowoon and Sungjin. “She thinks that you’re a politician who’s going to donate a huge sum of money to the house. An envoy from the east.”

“The east? Which part of the east?”

“They won’t care. Just bring up the orient and say something about tea and trade and yes, what a shame and go on about how civilized things are in Europe and then end with the fact that you were raised in California. America’s a real hot topic these days. Don’t forget to do that rolling, lilting thing with your voice that all the girls like--” 

“--oh I didn’t know the girls liked that--” Jane grins, thinking of all the times that she’d used the affectation that she’d learned while working in the household of an American couple. 

“--well, that’s the cat out of the bag. You’ll have to work it tonight--you’re going to pretend like you’re the  _ patron  _ of the poet who’s writing the play.” Wonpil says. “Act sure of yourself, mention the play in passing, say it’s wonderful, the most beautiful thing you’ve ever read.”

“Jesus,” Jane says under her breath. “You know, if you guys wanted an actor, you should’ve gone and done this shit yourselves--”

“--Gamja knows us too well,” Sungjin says. “He’d throw anyone of us out as soon as we came within two feet of Beatrice.” 

“And yet he let Wonpil arrange an audience with her?” Jane raises an eyebrow, skeptical.

Wonpil clears his throat. “Well. I mean technically, there _ was  _ supposed to be someone. An envoy from China, the one who deals with trade relations in Hong Kong. He was going to meet her tonight, care of the French consulate because they need his signature on some shipments that’re leaving for Asia next week. It’s all been handsomely paid for, with champagne and strawberries and all of that hullabaloo they use to butter these idiots up--”

“--well, where the hell is he?” Jane looks around, anxious. “What if he shows up and tries to kill me? What if I get arrested and hanged? Okay, first of all--I want my name in lights as much as the next person, but I’m not willing to  _ die  _ for this play.” 

“Well,” Wonpil says, grinning. “Let’s just say that I’m friends with one of the drivers at the embassy and his excellency has run into some trouble--with his wheels disappearing and the power being turned off in his house and all of the horses suddenly getting ill. That sort of thing--” 

“--oh my god, I’m going to die,” Jane says nervously, her stomach doing little somersaults at the thought of being in a room alone with a beautiful woman  _ and _ pretending to be a senator, nevermind pretending to be a  _ man _ ,  _ and  _ trying to sell a play. “I’m going to actually, really, truly die tonight.” 

“Here,” Wonpil says, stuffing a stole into Jane’s hand. It’s heavy, cool in her hand. “That’s the envoy’s stole. That’s how she’ll know who you are. Remember what I said. Keep your fucking cool. Also, don’t lose that--my friend’ll get axed if I don’t get it back to him by tomorrow morning.” 

“Axed?” Jane repeats. “Well for  _ us  _ that could turn out quite literally--”

“--AND FOR THE FEATURE OF THE EVENING!” Gamja yells from the stage. Music swells, the piano melody turning thunderous, crescendo. The strings dip low, lending bass and rhythm to the trumpets which begin to tremble through the room. “The house would like to proudly present, the star of tonight’s show. They say that the orient has pearls, but the orient also has diamonds--diamonds which sparkle, which adorn, which are beautiful and elegant and coveted across kingdoms. Helen of Troy may have begun a war, but after tonight, the only name on your lips will be that of Beatrice, the Diamond from the East!”

The red, velvet curtains part, the lights throughout the entire hall dim, a hush coming over the crowd, leaving only the soft trickle of music from the keys. A spotlight finds its mark in the tall, curvy silhouette of a woman standing with her back to the crowd. Her long, black hair moves like water in the moonlight as it moves from where it’s slung over one silken shoulder to hang long and straight down her back. 

She turns around slowly: beautiful, feline eyes, a quiet but mischievious smile. Jane takes a deep breath.  _ She’s beautiful.  _ Unlike the other courtesans, her corset is silver, sparkling-- _ the Diamond _ \--and instead of feathers, the train is tied to her waist with a satin ribbon, gauze-like, embroidered with sequins so that they look like stars dancing in the night sky whenever she walks, hips sashaying to the soft music. Her lips are softly rouged, eyes lined with kohl that accentuates their upward lilt. She walks down the stage, her heels clicking and clacking against the wooden surface. The curve of her hip, the taper of her waist, her slender ankles.

Jane thinks she might faint. Thinks that she might actually, literally lose all consciousness in the presence of this goddess. And then she starts to sing and Jane finds herself knocking back all of the whiskey in her glass.

_ I hope you don’t mind, _

_ I hope you don’t mind. _

_ That I put down in words. _

_ How wonderful life is _

_ Now you’re in my world.  _

Her voice is like liquid gold--or how Jane imagines that would be if it was a sound: grainless and smooth, possessing both the depth of an alto and that soaring quality of a soprano. It reminds Jane of a ship setting sail, its sails billowing in the wind, or that time she’d ridden on a plane owned by one of the soldiers in the countryside who’d charged a franc a ride: it made her feel the same things--that feeling in her stomach like she’s about to fall but in a good way, that desire to close her eyes, superseded only by the beauty of what was before her. 

Back then, the sunset.

Now, Beatrice. 

_ I’m screwed. I’m absolutely screwed.  _

“Now, gentlemen,” Beatrice says into the mic. “As much as I would like very much to entertain all of you, I’m a very busy woman, as I’m sure you all know--”

The crowd gives a knowing chuckle. 

_ What’s so funny about being busy? _

“--and tonight is a very special one indeed because we have a very special guest with us tonight. So instead of the Gentlemen’s auction, all of the drinks are on the house, courtesy of our neighbors from the East. All the way from across the sea, Mr. Lee has come to grace us with his presence.”

Jane doesn’t understand until it’s too late. 

The crowd gives a confused cheer, a couple of disappointed  _ boos _ resounding (although they’re silenced quickly at the offer of free liquor).

Jane doesn’t have time to think about it because before she can react, Beatrice is walking toward their table, is parting the crowd--one of the dancers lifting her down from the stage in a single fluid motion--and looking at her with those eyes. Jane blinks: once, twice, again and again until she can believe her eyes which she still can’t. 

When Beatrice reaches her, she unties the gauzy skirt excruciatingly slow, making a show of it. The crowd whoops, cheers. Jane is mesmerized: Beatrice is even more beautiful up-close. Her lashes are long, casting shadows on her cheeks. Her skin is so smooth it’s almost like glass except better because it’s soft, pliant under the corset and garters as she moves. For a single, sparkling moment, they’re blanketed in a bright mimicry of starlight as she moves the sequined gauze up and over them before laying it over Jane’s shoulders like a King’s robe. 

Jane blinks. 

Beatrice offers Jane her hand. “Well, Sir? Shall we?”

Jane gulps, gripping the stole so tightly her knuckles turn white. 

Wonpil nods at her. 

Sungjin waves a hand dismissively. 

Dowoon mouths  _ go on.  _

Jane nods, taking Beatrice’s hand. It’s rougher, more calloused than she’d expected--but it’s endearing somehow, like underneath all the glitz and glamour she was someone to depend on, to hold close. 

_ Stop daydreaming. _

Slowly, Beatrice leads her up the stairwell to her chambers, glances down at Jane.

“Are you alright, Sir?”

“I’m fine,” Jane says, unconvincing even to herself. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You’ll do great.” Beatrice says, her voice soothing. “I’ll make sure of it.”

The banister is made of newly varnished, shiny wood. 

_ Please.  _ Jane says, breathing out slowly.  _ Please let me survive this.  _

  
  


Jae wakes up gasping. He sits up, heart pounding. He looks around, disoriented for a moment before he remembers: the street, bumping into a stranger, a sheet of paper drifting in the wind, blackness.  _ And then all that.  _ He takes a moment to take in his surroundings: an old-fashioned living room but refurbished with relatively more modern furniture. A couple of photos on the mantle that’re blurry because he’s not wearing his glasses. Two cups of coffee on the wooden table. He looks down at himself. A blanket. He’s lying on the couch--well,  _ a _ couch--and in a sitting chair adjacent to where he’s lying, sits the beautiful man from the window. 

“You’re awake.” 

His voice makes Jae feel like dying. It’s deep, velveteen in quality, but also gentle, also dainty in a strange way.

_ Why? Why did this have to happen today? I look like shit.  _

“Yeah,” Jae says. “Sorry. Are you the guy I bumped into earlier?”

“Yeah, oh right--you can’t see,” the man gets up, walks toward Jae and sits beside him on the sofa, gently putting Jae’s glasses back on.

The sight of him swims into focus and Jae’s heart flutters in his chest. It’s the man from the window, the beautiful dancer. He looks even more handsome up close: his eyes are the loveliest shade of brown, deep-set, fox-like. His smile is enchanting, his cheeks smooth, the loveliest color of amber-under-milk. 

“Sorry,” Jae says. “What’s happening?”

“Ah,” the beautiful man says. “Yeah. You bumped into me on the street and we took a weird dive. I think you probably hit your head.” 

_ He’s speaking in English.  _

“Hold up,” Jae says. “Sorry. You speak English? I feel like you’re the first non-work person I’ve talked to in years.” 

The beautiful man chuckles. “Yeah. I was born and raised in Seoul but trained in Toronto and now, I’m here. Brian, by the way.” 

“Jae." 

“You live here long? I see you in the window sometimes.” 

“A little over a year?” Jae feels his cheeks heat up. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re really good at dancing.” 

“Thank you,” Brian says, grins in that coquettish way Jae finds entrancing. “You always look so sad, I try and spice it up a bit for you.”

Jae smiles at that--the first smile he’s smiled in what feels like years. “Thank you.”

Brian gives him a contemplative look, studying his face. 

_ How do I know you? _

_ Why do you look so familiar?  _

“Jae?”

“Mmmm?”

“Would you like to stay for dinner? I can cook something up.” 

Jae blinks: once, twice, thrice until he can believe what’s happening which he can’t. 

“I’d love that.”

Brian smiles, offers him his hand. “Come on. I’ll make you some coffee while you wait.” 

Jae takes his hand. It tingles where they touch. Brian pulls him to his feet. For all his handsomeness and grace, Brian’s hands are a little rough. Jae finds that oddly endearing, like he’s someone he could depend on. 

Light streams in through the window, the early evening sky a pale gold. 

“You looked pretty perplexed earlier,” Brian says as they walk into the kitchen. “And I’m not gonna lie, I saw some of the stuff in that folder. What’d you do for them to be so cruel?”

Jae shrugs. “I don’t blame them. It’s been quite a slump, this writing hell hole I’ve been in for the past few months.” 

“Ah,” Brian says, pouring water into a kettle, putting it over the stove. “I hate slumps. They always make you feel like everything’s going to go wrong, no matter how hard you try.” 

“Writing is about language,” Jae says. “And it’s taken a toll on me not to have anyone to talk to.” 

“Good thing you have me, now, huh,” Brian says. “Your friendly, neighborhood dancer-man.” 

Jae grins. “Right. Anyway, that was a downer--I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll will be,” Brian assents. “I’ll make sure of it. I’ll check up on you now and then.” 

And for the first time in a long while, Jae believes it.


End file.
